Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.

A death-bed's a detector of the heart.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, how complicate, how wonderful is man! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! A frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! Insect infinite! A worm! A God!

What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

We wish our names eternally to live; Wild dream! which ne'er had haunted human thought, Had not our natures been eternal too.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done